The day Coral graduated rehab, she was asked to
become a counselor. The hours were good, decent wage, and the only requirement
was having a valid driver’s license.

“Sure. I love
helping people.” Coral actually had little regard for others, but needed the
job. She knew she had blown her opportunities as a registered nurse in one
short year after getting caught stealing meds. A darn good job too. But she was
programmed in rehab to “not regret the past.” So she didn’t.

Coral was
considered a “lightweight” drug user, or a party girl, taking painkillers
recreationally with champagne chasers. There was nothing remarkable
about Coral’s looks, but the pills and booze gave her a sense of belonging in
otherwise out of reach trendy clubs.

After she was fired
from the reputable hospitable, and having forgotten to pay her rent for a few
months, and after her car was repossessed, her parents flew out from Michigan
and drove her to Belle Grande in West L.A., hoping their prized only child
would straighten up.

They had spent over
half a million dollars on Coral’s education, first a prestigious private high
school, then Sarah Lawrence. Her Healthcare major was a big disappointment,
intensified by her utter lack of ambition. Coral’s ability to obtain gainful
employment softened the riff between them but it did not last. Of course, the
rehab sticker price of 40 grand didn’t help matters.

Coral enjoyed
the recovery center, and met some colorful characters, “hipsters” that
generally would never associate with her on the outside. Musicians, writers,
and a few actors on TV network shows. The people were similar to those at the
cutting-edge clubs, except now they talked to her, laughed with her, even if
communal participation was mandatory. Coral did not mind.

Most of the
addicts were entertaining, droll, some quite attractive. Coral felt this
was the real reason she had moved to Los Angeles in the first place. Sure, she
loved nursing but it was not a coincidence she chose Los Angeles when looking
for a job.

Belle Grande
boasted a sequestered section referred to as the “hopeless cases,” the junkies,
who were kept in their own special ward, sealed off like contagion. She
occasionally saw them in the meal hall huddled together like a zombie
brotherhood. They intrigued her the most with their Twilight mystery
and sexy allure.

Much to
Coral’s delight, this would be the group she would be assigned to. Newcomer
“techs” were low on the rehab totem pole thus she was relegated to the scourge.

On her first day,
Cora wore a tight, black miniskirt, a tank top, heels and black eyeliner hoping
to impress the junkies.

She was in the
office punching in her employment card.

“Hey. I’m Bobby.
You’re counselor buddy.”

“Oh. Wow, really?”
Bobby had graduated from the contagion unit just as she was entering the
facility.

“I’m in Antioch now
studying addiction counseling,” he offered without prompt.

“I’m a nurse. How
funny.”

“Not really. Nurses
have an incredibly high rate of addiction. I learned that recently.”

“Oh.”

Coral
couldn’t believe her luck, working alongside a celebrated musician who had
jammed with Springsteen, The Foo Fighters, Dylan, Joanie Mitchell, and the
Stones! Then came his legendary fall into drugs, rehabs, and
relapses. Though she was puzzled as to why he would give up his glamorous life,
just toss it away to work toward some therapeutic degree; Coral deducted it had
to be part of a plea bargain to avoid jail time.

Coral had an
outrageous crush on him. And had for years. Though old enough to be her father,
she saw him as a kind of John Mayer plus 30 years more hard living. Her
heart was pounding but she had been trained to slow heartbeats and quickly
brought hers down. Breath deep, tense muscles, hold, release.

“We’ll be
working with the lowest of the low, the scum. They’ll shoot you for ten cents
and stab you for less.”

“What do we do
exactly?”

He studied her with
his famous hazel eyes.

“First of all lose
that stupid skit, wear a bra and don’t wear jewelry unless you want to get
shivved. Second, our job is to take them out. Museums, beaches, parks. Places
they’ll hate.”

He led Coral to the
ward. “Can you believe these idiots trust me with a key?”

“I used to listen
to Baby I’m On My Way over and over in high school.”

“I don’t do that
anymore.”

Bobby kicked open a
door.

“Get your sorry ass
out of bed loser!”

There were four
beds, all young men covered in tattoos and heavy blankets. “Go away, Bobby.”

Bobby picked up a
broom and started poking them one by one, then handed it to Coral.

“Here, you’ll get
used to it?”

“I will?”

Coral swept
lint off one junkie’s back.

“Yeah, keep doing
that,” he moaned.

Bobby grabbed the
broom and smacked him on the back of his head.

“Get up! Before the
sun goes down. We’re going to the beach.”

They all grumbled
and cursed.

“The vitamin D
helps with withdrawal.”

Coral was pretty
sure this was a lie, but they jumped up, all fully clothed, most wearing
hoodies and heavy work boots.

“Who’s the hottie?”

“She’s a junkie
like you, asshat. Now look at her. She’s going places.”

But Coral was five
feet four in heels, probably 15 pounds overweight and didn’t know the difference
between Gap and Gucci.

“Come here, honey.”

Bobby nudged her.

The guy’s face
looked like it had been chew off by a wild animal. He was missing teeth and
smelled like dead fish. It occurred to Coral the junkies looked better from
afar.

“You’re the only
reason I’m getting out of bed. What’s your name doll?”

“Coral.”

“You wanna date
when I get out?”

“I’m with Bobby
now. We’re living together.”

“Okay, that’s
enough. We have to get a few more.” Bobby lifted Coral over his
shoulder and for a moment she thought maybe this was all real.

Sure he had
dated famous actresses and models, but Coral was convinced he was ready to
settle on a less complicated girl. He would study, she would get her job back,
and they would learn to control their drug use, go to star-studded parties, and
maybe have a penthouse wedding at the Soho House.

Bobby drove
to a semi-secluded beach and corralled the dope sick addicts onto the sand
where he situated them next to each other, a symmetrical pattern of tightly
woven cocoons resembling eight body bags.

“Huh. That’s
a perfect Instagram.” He took their picture on his phone and shared it on a
dozen social websites.

Once settled, Bobby
and Coral sat nearby, Coral’s opportunity to discuss their future, but his eyes
drifted off taking in the beach Barbie’s playing volleyball a few hundred yards
away.

“Is that natural?
Her tits are perfect teardrops. And that ass! Watch her spike the ball. Shit.”

Coral took off her
heels, and adjusted her tank top to partially reveal one breast.

“Man, it’s hot.
Hey, Bobby, did you know that Eric Clapton wrote that song Layla for my
grandmother. She used to tell me to never get plastic surgery.”

“What? Your
grandmother was Patti Boyd?”

“Yep.”

“Well, that’s odd
cause’ she never had any kids.”

“I mean, like a
godmother.”

Coral’s entire body
sagged in shame. Of all people she couldn’t have lied about. This potential
romance was doomed for good. She thought about walking into the ocean and never
returning.

“Anyway, I can
always get implants.”

“Coral, you know
the rule. No relationships for a year in sobriety. But I don’t think that
applies to normies. I bet that girl in the red bikini never took a drug in her
life.”

“I’m going to get
them some water.”

“Hey, get me a
Coke, would you?”

Coral said a
silent prayer to a higher power she did not believe in. Though she was told to
surrender anything she might want for herself, she instead asked the power to
force Bobby to fall in love with her.

She didn’t really
want to get water for the junkies; she just wanted Bobby to taken notice of her
firm ass as she walked away. She was certain he was looking. She held her
breath and turned, but he was still sitting like a little boy staring at those
girls like they were rare mammatus cloud formations.

Coral’s plan was to
get everyone their drinks then continue into the ocean and drown, but as she
approached the body bags, skeletal hands reaching out of blankets, some
grabbing her ankles, she noticed one cocoon was deflated.

Coral returned to
Bobby, handing him his Coke.

“Jill is not in her
blanket.”

“Maybe she’s taking
a piss.”

“Did you see her
leave?”

“Are you fucking
kidding? I can barely keep track of these girls. They must be UCLA co-eds.
Jesus. Don’t worry. Jill is probably looking for dirty needles in
the sand.”

After coming
up empty on Jill in the bathroom, Coral followed her tiny footsteps south.
Rickety beach bungalows were strung along the coast, surfboards lining their
exteriors. Coral approached a gang of young, buff dudes patiently waiting for a
good wave.

“Hey, have you seen
a petite girl, all dressed in black.”

“Man, what a head
case. Total spinner.”

“Yeah, another Bell
Grande success story. She’s working on her fourth step, snorting what’s left of
our coke.” They laughed.

“Holy shit!” A
perfect swell was bubbling up and off into the ocean they ran.

Jill was sitting at
a small kitchen table licking the remains of cocaine from a piece of white
paper. Her sleeves rolled up, sweating from the heat and drug detox, Coral
noticed a dozen or so slice marks up and down her reed thin arms.

“Hey. Hi. Don’t
tell Bobby. Okay.”

“We have to go.”

“I’ll never get
better. You know that, right?”

“I tried to kill
myself once with a disposable shaver.”

“Now that’s lame.”

Coral gave her a
candy bar.

“I remember seeing
pictures of you and your mom in People all the time. I would be so envious. My
parents are furniture.”

“My mom is a phony
bitch. I’m her show pony and could never talk. It wasn’t fun unless I was
high.”

Coral would never
understand what it was like to grow up in the public eye, yet feel invisible.
But Coral knew what it felt like for no one to see you. No words can fix that
wound.

Leading Jill back
to the group, Coral began to understand why Bobby gave up the life he had.
After a while, she understood glamour wore off, perhaps an impossible dullness
sets in. For all she knew, Bobby’s wound was bigger than hers. He was not the
answer. Maybe she bought Jill another day. Maybe not. But there was satisfaction in
knowing that Coral had gotten Jill back inside the van, to Belle Grande, alive,
and Jill possibly might survive another night. Coral could try and connect with
her again. Tomorrow.